this was what he murmured, for, though no word could reach her, John's
beaming face spoke louder than his voice.

At last John let his hand drop, and, eyebrows raised a little, asked a
question.

"But how did it happen? But tell me all about it," was what he seemed to
say.

And Winthorpe (always with something of that ecstatic light in his eyes)
proceeded to answer. But it was a longish story, and lasted through half
a dozen of their forward and backward ambulations. Apparently,
furthermore, it was a story which, as it developed, became less and less
agreeable to the mind of John; for his face, at first all awake with
interest, all aglow with pleasure, gradually sobered, gradually
darkened, took on a frown, expressed dissent, expressed disapprobation,
till, finally, with an impatient movement, he interrupted, and
began--speaking rapidly, heatedly--to protest, to remonstrate.

"Ah," thought Maria Dolores, "the priest is to be made a bishop, sure
enough,--but a missionary bishop. It isn't for nothing that he looks
like an early Christian martyr. He is going to some outlandish, savage
part of the world, where he will be murdered by the natives, or die of
fever or loneliness. He is a man who has listened to the Counsels of
Perfection. But his unascetic friend Prospero (one would say June
remonstrating with December) can't bring himself to like it."

John remonstrated, protested, argued. Winthorpe, calmly, smilingly,
restated his purpose and his motives. John pleaded, implored, appealed
(so the watcher read his gesture) to earth, to heaven. Winthorpe took